


Behind Tinted Windows

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking & Talking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26326282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: “–And I have a sense you’re not feeling well,” Charles finished, looking plainly at Pickles who, in turn, merely shook his head and reached for his second dipping sauce.“Shit, dood, yer really gonna make me say it?” Pickles asked, breaking into a strained, miserable grin that made Charles far more nervous than he cared. He kept it in. Not because he wanted to, but because he had his answer.Pickles wasn’t alright.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 13
Kudos: 16





	Behind Tinted Windows

**Author's Note:**

> Just me experimenting. This started as one thing, and like everything else, ended up longer than I wanted.

The alert arrived at around 2300 hours, though by that point Charles already had the inkling something was up, and called for an aircraft. By the time he departed Mordhaus, a limo was already prepared and on its way to the targeted location.

Charles arrived by air, hand clinging to the helicopter’s ladder in preparation for his next move. There was quite the scene beneath him as he descended further, homing in on the flashing dance club underneath. A closer view revealed paparazzi flashing their bright lights, surrounding a swaying, heavily intoxicated Pickles bearing a bloodied lip and cut cheek. Once Charles was sure it was safe, he jumped, legs and feet together, rolled and sprung up, standing perfectly upon impact.

“Oooh, hey, Charles,” Pickles slurred, bringing a heavy hand up into a sloppy wave. He staggered over, arms reaching out right as Charles ordered two klokateers to escort the man into the recently parked limo. Charles wasted no time brushing off any dust and wrinkles from his uniform before approaching the club’s manager, snapping a finger and alerting his assistant to scramble and make the necessary arrangements.

“I apologize for whatever commotion he caused,” Charles began, barely glancing up at the ruined neon sign and palm tree set aflame before summoning his assistant forward. The hooded man clicked open his briefcase, exposing pages upon pages of contracts that required signing. “Sign these forms, and I assure you any damage that was done will be settled, without complaint,” Charles added then, turning to his assistant, said, “you know what to do. Be sure to park the helicopter in lot C when you arrive back.”

“Of course.”

Charles turned his attention to the klokateer guiding Pickles into the limo, while the other took to the driver’s seat. Once Pickles was inside, Charles approached the latter, tapping on his window lightly and waiting as it lowered.

“Take us to the nearest fast food joint,” Charles calmly ordered, then made his way inside the limo.

He waited until the klokateer closed the door behind him, then huffed a short, albeit tiresome, exhale through his nostrils. On the other side, seated near the end of the limo, was Pickles. His arms and legs were spread out, stealing space and disallowing anyone to get too close. Eyes to the floor, Pickles sucked the drying blood from his lip.

As the limo began its journey, Charles carefully assessed the seriousness of the injuries. The scratch on the cheek was minor. Required some cream, but would disappear in a week, leaving nothing behind so long as Pickles refrained from further irritating it. The gash on the lip was harder to determine with Pickles constantly going at it. Again, Charles wasn’t too overly concerned with it. He’d seen Pickles with worse, and knew this was fixable.

The limo made a turn, and light from outside flashed across the limo. There were marks around Pickles’ lower neck, and their sudden presence sent an uncomfortable chill up Charles' spine. He gave no obvious indication that those off-colored, rosy pocks bothered him, but that chill continued to crawl up his back, until it reached the base of his mind where it threatened him with less than flattering visuals of the night Pickles’ endured until this very moment. 

Charles shut if off right as the limo increased its speed.

First things first: figure out if Pickles was alright. 

Charles pulled a small packet of gum from his inner coat pocket. “Spearmint gum?” he asked, offering a stick in Pickles’ direction, and hoping it might persuade the man to leave his corner. 

“Nah, fuck that,” Pickles said, bottom lip sticking out as he stopped the licking and sucking to give Charles a less than welcoming stare.

“Suite yourself,” Charles replied, but then tossed the stick on the other side of the limo, where it bounced once, then sat on a cushion close to Pickles. “I’ll… leave that over there, in case you get tired of the taste of blood.”

Pickles snorted through his nose. “Nah, dood, I love it,” he said, bearing his front teeth stained with flecks of dried blood. “Fuckin’ love this shit.”

“You, uhh, want to tell me what happened back there?” Charles asked.

Pickles crossed his arms, wincing some as he tried lifting his grin, only to be stopped by the cut lip. “Oooh, this shit already?”

“Just, you’re looking a little worse for wear,” Charles attempted to explain. He saw Pickles roll his eyes before bringing a hand to his irritated cheek. “I’m merely concerned, is all,” Charles added, hoping his second attempt might reach Pickles.

“Sure you are,” Pickles said, leaning to one side, scowling as he lifted his hand from his cheek, and cringing from the heated pain. “Fuck, I need a drink,” he complained, eyes darting around the limo. “Fuckin’ hell, man.”

The limo’s partition lowered halfway, exposing the two klokateers sitting in front. “Sire, there’s a Buckethead’s around the corner,” one of them announced.

“Take us in,” Charles said without so much as glancing in their direction. “So,” he said to Pickles, “What will it be? Chicken tenders with sauce? The sandwich with extra mayo? A bucket?”

Arms crossed and looking away from Charles, Pickles answered, “Tenders.”

“Honey mustard and cool ranch dipping sauce?”

Pickles’ cast his eyes further downward before muttering, “Yeah.” 

“You heard the man,” Charles said, indicating to the silent klokateers sitting up front.

“I still need a drink,” Pickles grumbled.

“In due time, but until then I’ll have to ask you to settle for a soda,” Charles replied, eyes narrowing in on the brightening cheek. “If you don’t mind, it should only take a few additional minutes to locate a liquor store…”

Again, Pickles made a face, this time ignoring the pain and successfully sneering at Charles. Charles didn’t let the silence get to him, and remained comfortably poised, giving Pickles all the time in the world to grow tired of trying to be more pissed than he was, and fall back into that warm, comforting mental fog. After a few minutes of silence, the small window slid open, and Charles took the bag and drink, and then placed it besides him.

“Locate a 24-hour pharmacy and drug store,” Charles demanded, then closed the partition.

With the promise of chicken tenders now in sight, Pickles lifted his head some, frown at a slant as Charles carefully brought himself to the other side to sit down.

“Here you go,” Charles said after accounting for the number of dipping sauces, then stuck his arm out to bridge the distance between the two of them. “Just what you ordered.”

“That easy, huh?” Pickles asked, ogling at the bag with hazed interest, but keeping himself from outright grabbing it.

Unwavering, Charles replied: “I don’t see why not?”

“Hmph.” Pickles inched closer, jumping across two cushions and grabbing the stick of gum in the process, then snatched the bag from Charles. As he tore open the bag and pulled out the first of his tenders, Charles accounted for each bright hickey littered on Pickles’ neck, the increasing number racking his brain with guilt. 

Pickles made it as far as chewing his food before he started groaning between bites.

“Does your lip hurt?” Charles asked, offering Pickles a napkin.

“Like y’care,” Pickles said through a mass of half-consumed chicken and cool ranch dip.

“You know I do,” Charles replied, left brow threatening to bend when he saw Pickles look away. “I’m concerned when anything happens to you and–” 

“Lemme guess: _the boys_ , right?” Pickles scoffed, then shoved the rest of his tender into his mouth. 

“–And I have a sense you’re not feeling well,” Charles finished, looking plainly at Pickles who, in turn, merely shook his head and reached for his second dipping sauce.

“Shit, dood, yer really gonna make me say it?” Pickles asked, breaking into a strained, miserable grin that made Charles far more nervous than he cared. He kept it in. Not because he wanted to, but because he had his answer.

Pickles wasn’t alright. That’s next on the agenda, then. 

“Not if you’re not ready,” Charles said, looking past the blood-shot eyes and hoping that his next set of words would reach Pickles. He sighed a little. “But by the looks of it, we’re about to park. I know you want something to drink, and I’ll have that fixed for you, but I’d also really like it if you let me apply something to that scratch you got there…maybe any other areas that hurt? If anything _else_ hurts?”

Pickles dropped his head. Dreads spilled over his hanging shoulder. “Yeah,” he said. “S’fine, I guess.”

Charles raised a hand, ready to comfort, but the marks warned him to keep space. Wait until the right moment. The right step. 

“Do you need any bandages?” Charles then asked. “I figure that cut–”

Pickles reflexively covered his neck, nose wrinkling in disgust before breaking into a laugh. His eyes shut tight as he snickered, hands covering his mouth as he brought himself up and swallowed the memory whole. Pickles exhaled, then reached for another tender and shoved it into his mouth, not bothering to cover it in sauce. He coughed and choked on his meal, waving his hands and finally gesturing to Charles to hand him the soda. Holding his breath, Charles offered the drink, half expecting Pickles to recoil when their hands touched, but was relieved when he felt the brief skin-to-skin contact, followed by the increasing grip and tug as Pickles took his drink.

Another wave came right after Pickles belched, fell into the seat and grumbled, “thanks.”

“So… yes on the bandages then,” Charles said with some caution, watching Pickles' eyes flicker as he mentioned it. He stood up as best he could and headed to the door. “Well, if you give me a minute–”

Pickles turned. “Wait, yer’ goin’?”

Without wasting a second, Charles asked: “Would you prefer I send someone else in?”

Pickles’ eye shifted to the side. “Nah, it’s cool.” 

Charles swallowed, feeling a slight lump in his throat begin to form as he debated whether he should challenge Pickles’ statement. He already knew Pickles’ wasn’t alright, but trying to decide whether he needed comfort or space had yet to be determined. His gut said to stay inside, sit closer and push the boundaries. Initiate contact. Force a reaction from the stubborn man and jump straight into the final stage. 

But then Charles remembered he still had a job to do. 

“Alright.” And he exited the limo. 

The air outside was far more tolerable than the stuffy, coagulated heat inside the limo. Charles hated himself for thinking it, but he was somewhat relieved to be outside, and each step he took that further separated him from the limo, and from Pickles, warped his already uneven heartbeat till each breath of air was nothing short but painful. 

He stepped inside, expressing little as he made it his first goal to gather medical supplies. He hurried to the right aisle, picked up some Neosporin, then hovered over a few brands of bandages, trying to locate the shade that best suited Pickles’ ghostly pale complexion. After a minute, he huffed, feeling the sweat start to form across his forehead. Anxiety creeped just around the corner, waiting just for the right moment to assault him with images of those rosy shoulders stained with freckles, now blemished with hickeys from some random at a club… 

After procuring the necessary items, the next thing in order was alcohol. Charles didn’t think it was wise, but knew its very presence would play a crucial role in getting Pickles’ to open-up more. As backwards as it sounded, and as much as Charles wanted to create a haven for Pickles, he knew such a setting would never produce the results he needed. 

He’d need something strong, but not too strong. Nothing hard, just enough to keep the buzz going. Beer above five percent, and ales would work nicely, too. Nothing too dark. Pickles preferred blonde over amber, but picked amber over anything as dark as a cup of coffee. Nothing too weak. The last thing Pickles’ needed was to feel patronized.

Charles eyed the rows of six and twelve-packs, carefully counting the amount of alcohol per volume, when he heard something crash behind him.

He found Pickles swaying in front of a fallen display of chips, staring absentmindedly at the scattered bags of Cheetos, Doritos, and Takis before sniffing and rubbing the nicked shoulder that had crossed paths with it.

“Pickles?” Charles called, causing the man to jump a little before recognizing where he was, and the mess he had made. 

“Whoops,” Pickles grumbled. 

“Well, uhm…nothing to fret over,” Charles said, then very cautiously placed a hand on Pickles’ shoulder. There was a jolt underneath him, and Pickles jerked away, taking a step back until his eyes locked on to his long enough to realize what he’d done.

“Oh, Charles. _Shit_.” Pickles rubbed his face, dragging his hands higher up his forehead until they consumed his dreaded crown. With the bright lights above, Charles could make out every single hickey, along with the discolored bruising starting to form around some of the larger ones. “Charles, dood. I, uhh, I don’t–” Pickles shook his head. “Shit man, you really startled me.”

Charles waited for the breathing to settle before making a second attempt, and resting his hand on Pickle’s back. This time, Pickles remained still, welcoming the hand with sinking shoulders, then dropped his arms and squinted his weary eyes at Charles.

“Let’s get you a drink,” Charles said, not indicating the slightest offense as he applied gentle pressure, using his hand to guide Pickles to the selection, and thanking the heavens when Pickles carelessly grabbed the first 12-pack of cheap beer his eyes settled on.

They made it several feet, passing by the frozen food section, when Pickles stopped. Charles saw Pickles’ lock on to something.

“You want a burrito? Frozen snack? Or–” Charles asked, then realized Pickles wasn’t staring at the food, but was fixated on his own disconcerted reflection.

Pickles brought a hand to the side of his neck. “I look like crap.”

Charles took Pickles by the hand, and promptly escorted him to the cashier.

They exited the store together, with two klokateer waiting for their arrival. This time Charles made sure he was the one to bring Pickles into the limo. It meant dropping the bag full of medical supplies, but Charles was willing to accept a minor slip-up if it meant Pickles’ was willing to communicate. Once he had Pickles safely boarded, he followed, taking the beer and bandages with, and not waiting to give the order to drive so that he could immediately begin his work.

“Are you done eating?” Charles asked as he lifted the small tube of Neosporin.

Pickles didn't answer, and instead tore open the box, reached in and snagged a can. He cracked it open, letting foam flow forth, spilling and hitting the bottom of the limo. Eyes closed, Pickles downed the first can, emptying it in just a couple of seconds before letting it fall and crushing it with his foot.

“Gimme a band-aid,” Pickles said, snapping moist fingers in front of Charles’ face.

He handed the box to Pickles, who took and treated it with the same respect as the 12-pack, ripping it open and causing some bandages to fall forth. Pickles growled, hands shaking as he picked up a covered bandage and started to unwrap it. 

“Do you need any–”

“I got it.” Pickles peeled the remaining bits of paper from the bandage, then flicked on one of the lights before he tried applying the first on top of a hickey. Not the cut on the cheek. Charles found the sight rather distressing. Pickles groped around his neck, trying to make sense of the hot, shame-ridden skin and sort through what was a vein, bone, and what was possibly raised skin due to deepening anxiety, or if it just might be the mark he was looking for.

Charles picked out a second can, placing it next to him as he held in a breath, searched deep within himself for additional strength, and waited for Pickles’ stubbornness to get the better of him.

Finally, after the limo had long since entered the highway, Pickles muttered: “I don’ know where these stoopid things are.”

Charles sat beside Pickles, picked out a bandage that rested on top of Pickles’ lap, and peeled away the covering before raising it, ensuring that Pickles could see it in his hands, before carefully applying it to the first and most visible hickey. He leaned in, embracing the heat emitting from Pickle’s neck, detecting the strong smells of alcohol, adrenaline and sweat, and refrained from reacting to it, instead adding on a second bandage, then a third.

“There.” Charles leaned back, smiling at his work. It was a shoddy job. No bandage matched Pickles’ complexion well enough, but he didn’t see as many marks on his neck. “Already looking better.”

With no mirror on hand, Pickles could only take his word for it. He signaled a lazy nod, dipped head back and rested it on the cushion, taking the second can that Charles offered to him, and nursed it while Charles opened the tube of ointment.

“Charles?”

“Yes, Pickles?” Charles squeezed a bit of gel from the tube, eager to apply it to Pickle’s busted lip. 

Eyes still avoiding Charles, Pickles asked: “Are you mad at me?”

Finally, a breech. Emotion threatened to burst out of Charles, along with the fears and images that had haunted him the moment he realized what had happened to Pickles, but he held it all down, letting his finger dip into the small droplet of ointment and swipe it up, bringing it to Pickle’s cut lip, and tenderly dabbing the wound with it.

“I’m worried for you,” Charles said in a semi-confessional manner. He allowed just enough of his pain to squeeze into his voice, but reminded himself whose job it was to stay under control. Specifically, right now. “I’m deeply concerned for your wellbeing, and I want nothing more than to know that you’ll be alright in the coming days. Not because you have work ahead, but because I genuinely want you in a safe state of mind.”

Pickles sniffed right as Charles applied some of the ointment to his cheek. “Fuckin’ gay, man.”

“I’m well-aware.”

Charles returned to his seat, but his eyes remained on Pickles, who by now was harboring a full and heaving chest that forced most of his carefully placed dreads to topple.

Pickles wiped his forehead. “Charles, I’m fuckin’ sorry.”

“It’s quite alright.” 

“No, it’s _not_ ,” Pickles barked, snapping back with an accusatory finger. “It’s not fuckin’ ok. I jus’ wanted a lil’ attention. That’s all!” He picked up his second can and finished it. Tears slipped down his cheek, and he tossed the second can straight across, letting it hit the tinted window before dropping on to a cushion. “Jus’ wanted a lil’ fun. None of this fuckin’ bullcrap.” 

So it was finally out there, ready to be discussed. Charles had a feeling there was an ulterior motive to the marks, but it didn’t stop from making it hurt any less. He cupped his hands together, searching for a way through this conversation that wouldn’t result in him breaking. Next to him was a brilliant, talented man; but, at the same time, an equally fragile person, and Charles could not bear to see him crack any further. 

Charles picked out another can. “Pickles?” 

“What?” 

Charles offered him the can. “I’m sorry for being so busy. You needed me tonight, and I wasn't there." 

Pickles glanced at the can, the promise of booze and a fog that would help ease the pain burdening his soul. He picked it up, but let his hands linger on top of Charles’ long enough to let the older man know he was almost there. Almost back. Almost approachable. “’Kay.”

“And, just so you know,” Charles began as Pickles snapped open the can, “I forgive you. Whatever happened back in there. I’m sure you already know, deep down, that I forgive you.” 

Pickles had his mouth glued to the cold can. “Mmm.”

“No matter what happened back there, I just need to know where you are now.”

Pickles stopped drinking. He hunched over, resting his hands and the can right between his legs. Several locks flopped forward, swaying as Pickles’ dropped his stare to the messy floor. “Yeah.”

Charles inched closer. He placed a single hand on top of Pickles’ leg, not too far from where Pickle’s hands were. “I need to know you’re going to be ok.”

He saw Pickles’ eyeing his hand. “I know.”

With his second, he took Pickle’s by the chin, guiding him up and appreciating how little effort it took for Pickles to follow his move, to welcome his touch.

“I need to know. _Not_ just as your manager,” Charles said, barely holding it in when he saw Pickle’s composure threaten to shatter.

Pickles managed a weak chuckle, and bright red splotches filled his shoulders, neck and face. “Fuck.”

“Pickles.”

Pickles grimaced. “ _What?”_

“What do you need?” Charles asked him, hand squeezing his leg and other shaking to bring Pickles’ closer. “What can I do to help you?”

Pickles snorted through his nose, giving into a smile that, while small, caused the freshly cleaned wound to split open again. “Jus’ you is f–”

The can fell on its side, rolling off the cushion and spilling on the floor as Charles pulled Pickles into an embrace. He carried Pickles into his chest, one arm immediately wrapping around the man’s thin waist and resting his hand comfortingly on Pickles’ back. The other went under his arm, hand cradling the back of Pickle’s head. There was a jerk, followed by every muscle in Pickles’ body turning frigid, only to melt and mold under the tender squeeze and bring his arms up to return the favor. Those wiry arms encased around Charles, squeezing hard, trembling, trying to steady against the vibrations underneath, and those occurring in his shaken spirit. 

“It shoudn’ t-take me rippin’ off my d-disguise,” he heard Pickles utter in defeat. The weight of his arms dropped, and Charles gave the man another squeeze, compelling him to continue at his own pace. Pickles rested his face into Charles' neck, where he could hear each staggered, but slowing breath. “I jus’ w-wanted a lil’ fun, y’know? I don’ mind flirtin’ an all, but if I say stop...”

Charles turned his head slightly, grazing his cheek against short stubble. “It’s alright.” 

“Had to t-take the hat off,” Pickles murmured, bringing his arms back around Charles in a moment of weakness. “Suddenly my- _my_ words mean somethin’. It ain’t right. Like, w-what the hell?”

His body shook underneath Charles, increasing in vigor as Pickles’ gave in and relieved himself of everything he’d bottled up until now. Charles held on, letting his neck and suit get stained with tears, his ears assaulted with dry and airy whimpers, each note increasing in strength until breaking into a frantic cry. Pickles crumbled, and Charles held him up, and Pickles stifled a cry and Charles squeezed and rubbed his back and forced it out, forced everything out, until there was nothing but the sounds of heavy sobs and Charles somehow whispering over each one, telling Pickles’ repeatedly that everything was going to be ok. 

* * *

They arrived on Mordhaus territory sometime after one, but passed by the massive fortress, driving further into the land, through the woods and deeper, until the night sky was obscured with the oppressive shadows of the forest. Pickles swayed from side to side as he peered through the tinted window, busted lip pursed outwards and forming a lazy smile once the light finally pushed through, signifying to him they had finally arrived. Besides him sat Charles, who was officially off the clock, and was looking far less conservative, with his hair slightly askew, suit wrinkled from much-needed cuddling. Pickles was already waiting by the door when it swung open, revealing the pale light from the moon above. Pickles’ took Charles by the hand, leading him out of the limo, and kicking out some half-dozen crushed cans in the process.

Pickles blew a small bubble with the spearmint gum, cracking it with a loud pop between his teeth, impressed by the echo it produced, then brought his lanky wrist up and rubbed his recently bandaged cheek. He stared out at the massive lake situated in the middle of the woods. Even under the stars, the lake was so deep and wide that it appeared more a black, open field that occasionally reflected some light than an actual pool of water. In the still of the night, it could pass for a black hole. Nevertheless, Pickles found the scene charming and, still holding Charles’ hand, led him closer to the water.

Charles was tired, that much Pickles knew. Charles said not to blame himself, and Pickles was more than willing to obey, but wanted to make it up to him. Give him something sweet. As much as he wanted to give the guy a break though, Pickles wasn’t quite there yet to give the man the attention he deserved. Even after he described the bastard, watched jubilantly as Charles called for a marksman to get the job done, and swooned over how calm and collected Charles was through the whole process. Lord, if he didn’t want to give the man a nice handy, a fan-fucking-tastic night polishing the crown jewels! Exhausted, Pickles could only smile wearily at the idea. Cool winds blew past them, causing some of his dreads to fall over his face. He brushed them aside, and confronted the bandages, passing over a few and experiencing only a mere glimpse of the pain that ached him from before. Pickles thought of Charles again and figured maybe in a few hours, or once the sun had risen, and the memories of the night were long since forgotten. 

“Y’know, I don’ know what it is, but somethin’ about this place really calms me,” Pickles commented, snapping the gum with every other word, and glancing behind him as Charles lifted his head high to admire the size of moon hanging above them.

“Most people enjoy the sound of water. Err, nature in general,” Charles pointed out.

Hearing the comment, Pickles chuckled. “Ohh, _wow_. Slow down, Romeo.”

Charles squeezed his hand. “Sorry, I–” 

“S’fine.” Pickles stopped them just as the sound of shoes hitting the grass was replaced with gravel and damp sand. They stood less than a few foot from the water, where the black waves lapped forward, splashing the earth and darkening it with its welcoming presence. Pickles pushed a sneaker closer, letting the water hit the tip. He rested his head against Charles’ side, not minding when the water breached his sneaker’s fabric barrier. “I like it when yer awkward. S’good to have you that way.” 

Charles smiled under the moonlight, which did an amazing job hiding the blush, and made his smile look far more composed and way cooler than it actually was, or what Pickles was willing to admit. He joined Pickles, letting his nice shoes meet the water’s edge, and the two stood together, silently, watching the waves or the moon above, the tips of the trees shake under mild winds, and the occasional glimmer of something alive in the forest. 

“It’s good to have you back, Pickles,” Charles said through the silence. 

Some wind blew into the opening, causing the water to roll and shine under the moon. Shoes soaked, Pickles stepped back, resting his entire being on top of Charles, and enjoying the break, the end to the silence and welcoming the sound of waves and Charles breathing in his every word.

“Good to be here with ya, Charles,” Pickles said, wincing and holding in a stinging tear when his lip reopened from the smile, from Charles turning and kissing him, holding him, fingers running up his neck to let him know the marks meant nothing to him, that it was alright. They’d be alright.

Everything was ok.


End file.
